


;

by noifsandsorbees



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Revival fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-10
Updated: 2016-02-10
Packaged: 2018-05-19 11:55:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5966563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noifsandsorbees/pseuds/noifsandsorbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>she dreads his middle-of-the-night calls, because he’s dangerous when she’s half asleep, too much like home for her to keep a proper distance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	;

**Author's Note:**

> This was written right before My Struggle aired, but I'm slow at uploading here. Disregard what we've actually seen. Or not, up to you.

**washington dc.**

he picks her up in the small hours of the morning, rain pounding against her jacket and soaking the strands of hair that fall from under her hood. she buries her bag in the trunk and races into the passenger seat.

it’s only week two back on the job, but mornings like these are muscle memory, being awoken too early and packing through half-closed eyes, her body following his without quite knowing why it couldn’t wait until sunrise. she dreads his middle-of-the-night calls, because he’s dangerous when she’s half asleep, too much like home for her to keep a proper distance.

she gives him a half smile as a hello, takes off her coat and settles against the window; her eyes are closed before georgetown disappears.  
 _  
it couldn’t wait until morning, because it matters too much to him, their cases and the answers to their mysteries and her, always her. everything and everyone but himself,_ she reminds herself as she drifts off to the rhythmic beating of the storm, grateful that he is once again finding his footing in the world.

**new jersey.**

the rain has turned to snow by the time she opens her eyes in the now-stopped car, a lazy fluttering of the perfect kind, the one that sticks as powder on the windows but will fly away on its own, no muscle needed to scrape it off.

mulder is gone, and an attendant is knocking on the window to hand her back his credit card. she forces herself to sit up to take it, her eyes lingering through the open window for signs of where they are. she snaps back when mulder returns, leaning back as he opens his door and hands her coffee and a bag of muffins.

“good morning,” he smiles, and she is thankful for the softness of his voice, full of only sincerity and longing for the days when waking up together was the only life they knew; no trace of bitterness or propriety. they’re not at work yet, she thinks, this time is still theirs, to mend and heal and grow.

he takes off and she drops her head back against her window, the clunk causing the snow on the other side to drop. just for a second, before it’s all gone, she sees a heart he must have traced only minutes before, and it takes all her willpower to stop herself from reaching out to him, from offering a promise she’s not yet sure she can keep.

instead, she hands him bites of breakfast as they tear down the highway, needing to remind herself again and again that they are old partners on a familiar road and not new lovers on the run.

**connecticut.**

she wakes again, with no memory of having fallen asleep, and only then realizes she doesn’t know where they’re going; she follows him the way she always has, questioning his logic and conclusions but trusting his instinct and direction.

“just outside of boston,” he tells her when she asks. the drive is more than five times as long as a flight, especially in a storm; she knows that he’s clinging to every minute he can be alone with her, that he’s trying to show her what they could be once again, who he can be when his head is clear.

she slides her hand over his on the wheel, the temptation too strong to resist, the instinct too pure to fight.

the ins and outs of this job are permanently etched into their brains, but this part is new, this physical contact while on the clock, stemming from pure intimacy rather than trauma; or maybe they are trauma, their lost hearts and broken family. this is trauma and they are healing together; maybe nothing has changed at all.

**massachusetts.**

their final hours pass with effortless talk, reminiscing about the countless trips like this they’ve made before and the odd monsters they’ve met and fought. her heart lurches as they pull into a motel parking lot and prepare to end this time out, return to the uneasy people they’ve become; they are getting better, in bits and pieces, in moments and glances, in short fights and too many tears, but the peace is never long enough.

she reaches for his forearm and coughs to find her voice, letting her mind drift to snowfalls watched through windows in their home; she can still taste hot chocolate on his lips, feel the heat of a fire warming her hands, the shock of a snowball he’d dropped down her back.

“everything okay, scully?” he asks and she breaks out of her head. 

“there’s another motel, about ten miles further,” she says, motioning toward her phone where she’d been searching on google maps. and there in his eyes, before she even finishes, is relief.

“thank you,” he whispers, and turns back onto the road, both holding on desperately to gained time.


End file.
